The Dido Chronicles
by EchoElizabeth
Summary: Highlander xover. The monks' spell has unexpected side effects on an Immortal Buffy. As the struggle against Glory comes to a head, Buffy is forced to deal with dreams that she doesn't understand and a past she was made to forget.
1. Sunnydale: The Monks' Spell

**Disclaimer:** Buffy the Vampire Slayer does not belong to me, nor does Highlander. The only profit I gain from this story is writing experience.

**A/N:** Buffy, as we know her, was 'born' with the monks' spell prior to Sunnydale. Assume that everything that happened on the Hellmouth actually happened with Dawn tagging along.

--

**Prologue: The Monks' Spell**

--

Buffy held her sister as Dawn sobbed, the bloody knife still clutched in her hand. The Slayer and the Key – what a pair they made, sitting there on the bed. One was a mystical warrior who had prophetic dreams and a secret identity. The other was a mystical ball of energy that could tear through the fabric of the universe. Oh yes, what a pretty pair indeed.

"You know," Buffy said, "I don't think it's as bad as you think."

Dawn snorted inelegantly, and Buffy was pretty sure there was now snot on her shirt. But she didn't pull away. Little sister's existential crises trumped wardrobe issues any day.

"No, really! It could be worse."

"How," Dawn mumbled through her tears.

"Well, for one thing, the monks could have made you my daughter instead of my sister. Then you would be five instead of just acting five."

She felt a half-hearted pinch on her arm, and she smiled in triumph. Now, if only she could earn a smile…

"Ooh! Or, they could have made you a stinky boy. You could've been Donald instead of Dawn!"

This time she earned a weak smack. She was making progress.

"Ooor, they could have made you a mini-Giles. Oh wait, they did. But they could've given you glasses and a compulsive 'oh dear,' too."

"Buuuffy," Dawn moaned in her arms. She wasn't crying anymore, and Buffy was able to slip the knife out of her sister's hands. It had come a little too close to her eye for comfort there.

"Look, Dawnie: it doesn't matter how – or when – you came into the world. You are my sister. My. Baby. Sister. You could have three eyes and play kitten poker, and I would still love you. Though I wouldn't encourage the kitten poker part."

"Learn to play kitten poker," the teenager muttered. "Check."

"Brat," Buffy said fondly, stroking her sister's hair.

"Do you mean it?" Dawn asked a second later.

"The brat part? Of course. The part where I said I love you no matter what? With all my heart. As much as I ever loved any…"

She trailed off. Ever loved any… who? She had the fleeting impression of a memory just outside her grasp – something that she should be able to remember, but that she just couldn't reach. It was frustrating, especially because she had a creepy feeling that she had been about to say something about _children_. It wasn't the first time she'd gotten the feeling, either. Ever since she'd found out about Dawn…

"Any what, Buffy?"

"Jello," she said quickly. "Cheese. Er, cheesy jello."

"You love me as much as _cheesy jello_. Buffy, I'm so touched," Dawn mocked. But there was humor in her voice, so Buffy was okay with her mental blunder.

"You should be," she said airily, deciding to roll with the fumble. "It is quite an honor to be loved like cheesy jello. Not even Xander and Willow are loved like cheesy jello. Nope. Xander is jello and Willow is cheese – loved together but not in one delicious package like my cheesy jello Dawn!"

"Now you're just grossing me out."

"With cheesy jello? This from the girl who likes ketchup on her bananas?"

"_Yes_!"

"Well, you need to be not so easy to gross out if you ever want to come patrol with me."

There was a breath of silence, and then Dawn shot up, eyes wide and red from crying. Buffy glanced down, and sure enough there was snot on her sweater. Oh well – it was one she was borrowing from Dawn anyways.

"Did you – do I – but you said –"

"That I would never take you on patrol and that if you ever followed me out I would string you up by your toes in the attic?" Dawn nodded mutely.

"I changed my mind."

Dawn looked skeptical, but when Buffy didn't immediately cry _just kidding_, the younger girl grinned. Personally Buffy didn't see the appeal in the whole demon guts on your shoes thing, but if it made her little sister smile, she was willing to roll with it. After all, no one who shared her blood had ever been anything less than the greatest warriors in history.

And where had that thought come from? Mom was certainly not a warrior by any stretch of the imagination – none of their relatives were even in the armed forces, let alone becoming the greatest warriors in history!

Buffy dismissed the thought as the product of her overactive imagination and smiled over at Dawn, who was blowing her nose and making an effort to repair her appearance using Kleenex.

"Come on, sweetie, let's get you all cleaned up," Buffy said, helping Dawn to her feet. "I want to get something over that cut before you die of scurvy."

"Before I _what_?" Dawn stared down at her, an incredulous look on her face. "Buffy," she said slowly, "Scurvy is what sailors get from not eating fruit – you don't get scurvy from scratches."

Buffy shrugged. "So? You could still die of scurvy before we get something on that cut, if you don't move your butt."

Dawn rolled her eyes, but followed Buffy into the bathroom to submit to Summers-style first aid.

--

That night, Buffy's dreams were stranger than normal. They didn't feel prophetic, but they did feel _true_. Like watching past lives, she decided, or a documentary. At first she thought she was viewing past Slayers. It wouldn't be the first time that had happened, and it would make sense if one of the other Slayers knew something that could help them against Glory.

Slowly, however, she came to realize that although she was watching a huge stretch of time, the figure at the center never changed. It was one woman, a blonde, and Buffy realized with a start that it was her.

Dream-Buffy turned and smiled at Real-Buffy.

Buffy woke up.

--

"Giles, it was so _weird_! She didn't just _look_ like me, she _was_ me – but me in places and situations that are completely impossible. I look pretty nice in a toga, though, if you were curious."

"I-I wasn't," Giles said, looking up from the store ledger. "You probably went to bed after watching television for too long. I would suggest that you spent too much time with your history homework, but…"

"Very funny, Giles. I'm serious, though! It felt just like my Slayer dreams, and just like my dreams when Kendra died."

"But in those dreams it was always other girls, or the First Slayer. Now you're talking of-of yourself in a toga." He closed the ledger as he spoke, walking around the counter to stand in front of her.

"Yeah, that's why it's so weird, Giles. And! And the other day I was talking with Dawn, and I kept almost saying and thinking the strangest things."

"Almost thinking?" Giles raised his eyebrows, but Buffy just nodded.

"It was bizzarro. First I almost said I loved Dawn as much as any of my children – which is ridiculous, because hello, never had kids – and then I knew she would make a fine warrior because everyone who shares my blood has been among the greatest warriors in history. But mom? So not a warrior. And don't even get me started on Hank."

Giles had begun cleaning his glasses when she started talking about her nonexistent children, and Buffy felt a surge of relief that her Watcher was finally starting to take her seriously.

"I d-don't know what to tell you, Buffy. For now, ignore it. If it keeps happening, I'll talk to a-a friend about it."

"If what keeps happening?" asked Willow as she and Xander came up behind Buffy.

"Weird dreams about togas," Buffy said, smiling as her two friends settled down at the circular study table.

"Oooh, I had a weird dream last night, too!" said Xander, resting his chin in his hand.

"Togas?" asked Willow, shoving her purse under her chair.

"No," he shook his head, chin still in hand. "Something about penguins in tutus with cheese on their heads."

Buffy and Willow exchanged a glance, then laughed. Still giggling, Buffy sank into the chair between Xander and Willow, pulling her feet up to sit cross-legged on the uncomfortable wooden chair.

"So where's Dawn this morning?" asked Willow, leaning her elbows on the table in a mirror of Xander's position. "I thought she was hanging out with us cause its finally the weekend."

"We had a rough night," Buffy grimaced. "She found out about… that. She's still sleeping off her existential crisis – I think she's coming patrolling with me tonight, though."

"I-it's not safe," Giles protested from the book loft. Buffy wondered when he had gone up there.

"Of course not," she agreed, craning her neck to meet Giles's eyes. "But this is Sunnydale, the Hellmouth. She's safer with me on patrol than she would be just about anywhere else. Glory's minions don't need an invitation, remember?"

"I remember," he sighed. "Very well, I won't protest."

"Good," she said. "Because I wouldn't have listened."

--

"Say it. SAY IT! You want me to kill her, Giles. You want me to _murder_ my baby sister."

The room was silent. No one would meet her eyes. With a snarl, she spun on her heels and stormed out of the room. She needed time to cool off before facing anyone after that. Kill Dawn? She saw where they were coming from – if it came down to Dawn or the world, of course she _should_ choose the world.

After all, either way Dawn would be dead. Buffy's breath hitched.

"I could really use someone to talk to," she whispered, hugging herself as she stepped into the shadows of an alleyway.

She didn't know why, but she knew someone would come. Someone she loved. Maybe it was all the weird dreams – the ones that hadn't stopped, but that she couldn't do anything about while the threat of Glory loomed over them all. In them, she had always gotten the impression that there was someone watching out for Dream-Buffy.

"Er, hey kid."

"Whistler?" Whatever she had been subconsciously expecting, she was positive that it wasn't the PTB's fashion challenged errand boy.

"Yeah. Sorry. Look, I know I'm not your first choice to talk to, but Himself is on, uh, vacation and, er, I'm trying my best to fill in. So, um, would you like to talk?"

The demon had taken his hat off and was twisting it anxiously in his hands. It would be comical, Buffy thought, if she wasn't so off-balance. Who was Himself? Why was he on vacation? And why did it sound like it was a regular occurrence for her to talk to him?

"Um, ok," Buffy said, shrugging slightly. She _had_ asked for someone to talk to, after all. Preferably one who wasn't encouraging her to kill her sister.

"Great," Whistler smiled in evident relief. He put his hat back on and gestured toward the mouth of the alley. "Let's go somewhere a little more comfortable. There's a coffee shop across the street that serves great mochas."

"It's closed," Buffy pointed out, though she followed the demon out onto the street.

"Yeah, but I'm a _demon_."

Buffy suddenly found herself sitting at a table inside the coffee shop with an iced mocha in her hand. She looked up from the beverage to Whistler, who waved at her from across the small table. She looked back at the mocha, shrugged, and began sipping at it. Who was she to complain about free coffee?

"So what's your trouble, kid?"

"So what _isn't_," she muttered back.

Whistler adopted a listening pose, and Buffy felt the urge to spill everything to him. So she did, in whiny and exhaustive detail. To his credit, the demon paid close attention, displaying an evident interest in her problems.

"…and with the dreams on top of everything else, I feel like I'm at my wits end. That oh-so-subtle hint to KILL MY SISTER just pushed my over the edge," Buffy finished, sucking the last of the mocha up through her straw.

"Do you mind if I play Devil's Advocate?" Whistler inquired after a moment. Buffy shrugged. "Well, first of all she's not _really_ your sister – no, wait! Listen – she isn't really your sister. I'm not saying that your _feelings_ aren't real. The fact that you _love_ her like a sister won't ever change. She's been part of your family since your move to Sunnydale four plus years ago."

"Really?" Buffy looked surprised.

They had all thought that Dawn was barely a year old. If she joined the family on the trip up… That meant all their Sunnydale memories were true, and the Sunnydale memories were the ones most important to Buffy. In L.A. she had been a stereotypical cheerleader in every sense. In Sunnydale, at least, she'd developed some character and built a relationship with her sister.

"Really," Whistler confirmed. "It was actually a bit of a mix up – caused quite a scandal. With Himself on vacation, The Others got a bit over eager to be meddling with the Slayer line. It's been His pet project from the beginning, and suddenly _They_ had the opportunity to mess around with it for their own purposes. They didn't actually mean to screw with _you_."

"So I just got screwed over because I happened to be the Slayer? Nothing _personal_?" Buffy asked bitterly.

"It's more complicated than that," Whistler said, shaking his head. He cocked his head to the side and appeared to be thinking hard about something. "It has to do with the dreams you've been having. As the monks' spell weakens, you're beginning to remember…stuff. I can't explain it."

"Try anyways," she said.

"No, really. Even if I had the words, you wouldn't believe me. But here, I tell you what. I'll _show_ you." Whistler looked quite pleased with himself as he suggested this, and it occurred to Buffy that she should probably be worried.

"Show me?" she asked suspiciously.

"Well, sort of. I'll remove the monks' spell that changes your memory, and-"

Buffy's expression darkened dangerously as Whistler spoke.

"This is just the PTB's attempt to get me to kill my sister, isn't it," she spat. She stood abruptly, sending her chair clattering to the ground. "You aren't here to help me, you're here to try and mess with me. Well you can tell those bastard bosses of yours that this is one mistake they can't undo! If the world ends, so be it. _I will not hurt my sister_."

She spun around to march out of the coffee shop, only to run straight into Whistler. Buffy growled and tried to shove the demon out of the way, but he only reappeared in her path again.

"Kid! Calm down! That's not it at all!"

Buffy shoved him out of the way again, but he scrambled back to block the door.

"Look, you'll still have all your false memories – you'll just know that they're false! I promise it won't change how you _feel_. Trust me, lady, I wouldn't try and screw with you, no matter what the bosses said. When Himself comes back from vacation…" he shivered theatrically. "And! And! Not to mention Balance! Cause me – Balance Demon. I'm all about the Balance. I'm not going to jeopardize that for anyone. And you? You should never have been messed with."

Buffy had calmed down during Whistler's jumbled attempt at reassurance. While she was still distrustful and pissed at the Powers, she no longer felt the desire to forcibly remove the demon's tongue from his mouth and shove it up his nose.

"Who is this 'Himself'?" Buffy asked, stalling as she thought about Whistler's offer. "God?"

"No more than any other Power," Whistler shrugged, though he looked happy to be talking about something unlikely to result in the Slayer doing him bodily harm. "I just say Himself to distinguish him from the other Powers, because he's got a special connection to you and the Slayer line."

Buffy nodded, but didn't say anything as she continued to think over the offer. It would be nice to make sense of the weird dreams… They'd gotten to the point that she couldn't even get a full night's sleep.

"Dawn is still my sister," she said after a minute, arms crossed over her chest. Whistler nodded eagerly. "And I'll be up and ready to fight Glory by tomorrow, no problem."

"No problem," he agreed, still nodding.

"And what do you get out of this?" she asked, still suspicious but warming to the idea of figuring out what her dreams meant.

"Nothing," he said quickly. Her eyes narrowed, and he quickly did a verbal 180. "Ok, so maybe I'm banking on getting a little credit with Himself," he shrugged. "But I also like _you_, kid, and I'd rather this whole Glorificus incident didn't turn into a world-ending disaster."

Buffy thought about it. Whistler seemed to be telling the truth. At the very least she wasn't going to be loosing anything in this transaction. At best, she would figure out the dreams and that would give her the boost she needed to defeat Glory without Dawn every coming close to death.

"Ok Whistler, I'll trust you. Don't make me regret it."

The demon nodded quickly, reached out, and touched her temples before she realized what was happening. As she collapsed, she felt herself hitting the soft mattress of her own bed. Then there was nothing but darkness.


	2. Carthage: The Slayer

**Disclaimer:** Buffy the Vampire Slayer does not belong to me, nor does Highlander. The only profit I gain from writing this story is writing experience.

**A/N:** I have always been intrigued by the story of Dido, the founder of Carthage. She always struck me as an unusually independent woman in the midst of powerful men. In many ways, she reminds me of what Buffy might have been, had she been born in another place and time – thus the inspiration for _the Dido Chronicles _.

Also to be noted: this story breaks easily into multiple parts, as Buffy has lived through multiple lifetimes. So, each chapter will be titled "Story Arc: Chapter Title," as a visual reminder of how the different pieces relate to each other.

**Historical Notes:** First of all, I am not well versed in ancient Phoenician culture, and what is presented here is equal parts research, conjecture, and creative license. Also, dates and other measurements have been given in American standards to facilitate the understanding of modern readers. (For example: although a pre-historical tribe wouldn't understand age in terms of the passage of 365 day years, I still refer to Buffy as 15, and likewise time passes in hours and months, etc.)

Dido's name isn't actually Dido. Dido is a nickname of sorts, Phoenician for "Wanderer" or "Vagrant." Her real name is Elishat or Elishet in Phoenician, or Elissar or Elissa in Greek. I chose to use Elishet, for its resemblance to the modern Elizabeth.

There are several versions of the Dido tale. The first, which is considered the historical version, is the one that I am choosing to use. The other version is the one made famous in Virgil's Aeneid, and will be ignored for the purpose of this story.

* * *

**Carthage: _The Slayer_**

* * *

**Tyre, 815 B.C. **

--

Elishet looked over at her younger brother with a sense of unease. Ever since their father had announced that they were to be joint heirs, Pygmalion had been acting oddly. They had never been terribly close, but there had never been this level of tension between them. She wondered what sorts of schemes he was coming up with to gain more power. Not that she could really blame him – she had her own set of schemes.

Beginning with their uncle, whom she had married last week. He was a good man, the High Priest of Melqart, and had always been fond of her. It made sense to her, both as a woman and as a Princess, to take him as her husband. It also helped that he had resources available to him that her brother couldn't touch.

"What is bothering you, little brother?" She didn't like being the first to broach the subject, but it would be better to call attention to it then to feel his eyes on the back of her neck.

"Nothing, _sister_. I am just so overcome with joy that you are finally properly married." The venom in his voice was glaringly clear, especially to someone who had been as well trained in politics as herself.

It had always vexed him that she was treated with as much respect as a man, and it didn't help that she was more intelligent than he. While he still relied on his mother for advice, Elishet had gone out and gotten a husband with power almost equal to that of the king – _and_ she was now to be co-ruler of Tyre.

Pygmalion was understandably mad with jealousy.

It would have been even worse had he known that she was also a better warrior, but fortunately – or unfortunately, when the occasion arose that she wished she could beat him into the dust – their father's open-mindedness only extended so far. A woman could learn mathematics and politics alongside her brother, but to learn the use of a sword…

And wouldn't it just shock them to learn that she was already more proficient at the weapon than any of his soldiers. Well, no matter. She was determined to live out this lifetime armed only with her wits. Already she had learned more than she had ever dreamed.

Few men were willing to teach a woman about science and mathematics, philosophy and rhetoric, reading and writing. Her father, or the man she had claimed as her father, was one such rare man.

When she stepped forward claiming to be his daughter by one of his lesser wives, a woman who had died while visiting her homeland, he had taken her in with very few questions. She had quickly made herself indispensable to him, impressing him with her wisdom and charm, her grace and her beauty. It had been an easy matter to convince him to allow Pygmalion's tutors to teach her as well.

Her introspection lasted only long enough for her to gather her patience.

"He is an excellent husband, is he not?" she crooned, giving her brother a nasty smile. "You should follow my example, dearest brother."

Pygmalion's lip curled into a sneer, just as she had hoped. He was so easy to goad, it almost made her feel bad. Almost, of course, being the key. Head held high, she breezed past before her brother could think of something subtle enough that it couldn't be taken as an insult.

Elishet returned to her husband's palace for some time alone. She was in a reflective mood, and those were best weathered out in the relative privacy of her personal chambers, where her swords and her slaves could keep her company.

She waved away the slaves who immediately came to attention upon her entrance.

"Stay out of my bed chamber," she instructed them mildly. "I wish a fresh bath to be ready when I come out, with fresh clothing laid aside."

They bowed and acknowledged her instructions, but she didn't wait to see them carried out. They were _her_ slaves, after all. While one or more of them was certainly being paid to keep an eye on her, none of them would disobey her direct orders.

Closing the door of her inner chamber, she carefully removed one of her jeweled swords from the wall. It was a wonderfully crafted weapon; perfectly balanced and wickedly sharp. It was also extremely pretty, which allowed her to openly claim it. Men always assumed she had it mounted on her wall to be admired.

Any man who stumbled into her chamber now would be shocked. Elishet began the slow, steady rhythms of a sword dance as she allowed her mind to wander over the past.

--

Her first death took place when she was fifteen.

In her village, Eshe was the only woman her age without a husband and a brood of children. In fact, Eshe was the only woman without a husband, period. Even those women who had been girls only months before were all married.

She had received no offers when she first became a woman at 12, not even for a position as second or third wife. She hadn't really expected to, of course – she was ugly, and no man wanted someone so obviously singled out by the spirits. All the other women of the tribe had smooth, beautiful dark skin. The men had glorious black hair and proud black eyes.

And then there _she_ was, with her sand-colored skin and sun-colored hair. Everyone knew she was spirit touched, and no one wanted to risk angering the gods by taking her as their wife. Or at least that was their excuse. Eshe knew better.

The summer before she turned sixteen, Eshe was approached by the Shaman of her tribe. He told her that the gods were calling her elsewhere. Scared and alone, she begged and pleaded against her fate. The Shaman had taken some pity on her, enough that he had allowed her a week to say goodbye, but in the end she was sent away.

For weeks she followed no particular path. The Shaman told her to follow the rising sun, but with no experience tracking or navigating, she could only follow his instructions in a vague, general sense.

It was enough for the gods.

Eshe stumbled on three men and a girl not much older than herself. The girl was tied to an altar in a cave, the three men gathered around her in fierce debate. She wasn't sure who was more surprised at the encounter, herself or the men. They had stared at her with undisguised awe, which should have been her second clue to run – the first being the other girl tied like a sacrifice in a cave.

"A spirit," one had murmured. "A good sign!"

"A girl," another corrected, though his eyes were hungry.

"An Immortal," the last stated, voice heavy with desire.

Then she tried to run, but the men caught her and brought her back. They tried outwardly to be gentle to her, but she knew that nothing good would come of this. She wondered if this was why the Shaman sent her away, to be used in a sacrifice.

When she dared to asked them, they hastened to assure her that it was not really a sacrifice. No one would leave the world. She noticed that they did not say no one would die – did they mean to trap her or the other girl in this world as spirits? The very idea terrified Eshe. Finally the men deemed that the stars were in line. Both girls were secured in the cave and the chanting began.

And then her world went black as a spear was shoved through her heart.

--

Elishet smiled faintly at this recollection. As traumatic first deaths went, hers wasn't so bad. She had always known she was different. Her light skin and hair marked her as an outsider despite having a mother and father within the tribe. While she couldn't claim to have expected being thrown out, in hindsight she could see that it had always been looming. She was lucky that way. Unlike many immortals she knew, _her_ kin-betrayal happened before her first death, and she wasn't forced to deal with the two together.

Having a spear shoved through your heart by a stranger was fairly straightforward. As soon as she had seen the way they tied up Sineya, she had known that she couldn't escape with her life. What she hadn't been expecting was the second chance.

And what a second chance it had been!

--

She gasped as the spear was plunged into her heart. Pain engulfed her and carried her away on wings of blue lightening.

"Hello, child."

She turned, almost as surprised to find that she still had a body as she was to hear the voice.

She gaped as the light cleared enough for her to make out the features of the man standing before her. Why, he was as light colored as her! Even lighter, in fact. Her skin was golden brown like the sand, but his was white like the clouds. His hair was the silver of an elder, but his face was as fair as a boy's. He was obviously a spirit – did that mean the tribe was right? Was she a spirit too?

"No," he answered, smiling slightly as he answered her unvoiced questions. "You are not a spirit, precisely. A being… displaced, we shall say. An Immortal. You will live forever, my dear, for as long as your head stays attached to your shoulders."

She gaped. How ridiculous was he? First he said she wasn't a spirit, and then in the same breath said she was!

"No," he sounded a bit impatient. "_Not_ a spirit. A woman with a choice."

She was dead. What kind of choice did a dead person have? To roam the land as one of the rumored demons? To be a vengeful ghost on her tribe? To proceed on to the afterlife?

"None of the above," he informed her. "Look, child. You will wake up in a few minutes with no harm done beyond having died. You can go on your merry way, living out the violent, brutal lives of your fellow Immortals. Or," he made this sound very promising, "you can agree to act as the Anchor in the shamans' spell."

So the shadowy men were shaman? She wasn't terribly surprised. But since when did the subject of the spell get a choice in the matter?

"Since the spell was too big for those who attempted to cast it. You know about the demons that roam the land."

It wasn't a question. He could obviously read her mind, which meant that he knew everything that she knew – and thus knew quite well that she had once seen the truth of the rumors with her own eyes.

"The shamans are attempting to create a warrior who can combat these demons. They hope to tie the Primeval forces to the life force of a young woman so that she becomes a living weapon. She will have the strength to battle the darkness. This is within their abilities. The problem lies beyond that. We, the Powers That Be, wish for this line of warriors to continue on. No one warrior can possibly bring about eternal Balance in a single lifetime."

And what did this have to do with her? And why couldn't they just make lots of warriors themselves? Why not train the men? It made no sense to make a woman into a warrior when they were so unsuited for the task.

"I'm getting to all that," he snapped. "A woman is necessary because of her ability to house another life force within her – and a woman is just as suited for this task as a man. Remember that she will _gain_ the strength necessary. We cannot make many warriors because we are bound to uphold the Balance."

She understood Balance. Everything in the life of the tribe was about Balance; about birth and death, sun and moon, summer and winter.

"Good. This is similar in principle."

He still hadn't told her what this all had to do with her.

"Simple," he replied. "We want you to be the Anchor. Your new friend Sineya will be the Champion and you will be the Anchor. You will share her strength and power in return for our use of your body to house the forces and pass them on to the next girl."

That didn't sound so bad – except there was Balance to consider. So far it seemed as though she gained much for nothing, and that was hardly in keeping with his earlier statement about the importance of Balance.

"Sharp girl," he approved. "To understand exactly what will happen, you must understand what you are. Immortal unless decapitated. Among the Immortals, there is a Game. Each Immortal attempts to behead the others in order to gain the ultimate prize and, so they believe, rule the world. When one Immortal kills another, their life forces combine and the winner gains the knowledge and power of the defeated."

It sounded gruesome.

"It is," he agreed. "If you are our Anchor, we can hardly have you go around courting a friendly beheading. If you say yes, your Quickening – your life force – will be removed from the Game. Other Immortals will be unable to sense you, and you will be unable to sense them outside of the senses you will gain as the Anchor."

That sounded like another plus, as far as she could tell.

"It's not that great," he cautioned her. "An Immortal gains strength and power through the Quickening. You will never be as powerful as another who lives as long, because you will be limited to your own experiences and the experiences of your sisters."

Maybe it was because she didn't fully understand, but it still didn't sound bad to her at all.

"You don't understand. If you are not strong enough, you could easily be driven insane by the death knowledge gained from countless women fighting and dying in an endless war. And that isn't the end of it," he continued softly. "In order for you to be Anchor, we must open your womb."

She stared at him. What was he talking about? Her womb had been open for years.

"Immortals are barren," he told her bluntly, and she felt a stab go through her.

Children were everything in the life of a tribe. She couldn't have children because she would live forever? That was terrible! She would rather have children and die of old age then live many years and never be given a baby.

"There's a reason Immortals can't have children." The man's voice was grave. "Imagine, if you are able, that every baby you have dies within moments of its birth. And this happens over, and over, and over, and over, and over again. And what child wants to grow old while his mother looks young enough to be his own child? It is heart pain, child. Heart pain that will never go away. And it will be your heart pain if you agree to this."

If she did this, then she could have children! Her heart swelled, but he only looked at her with pity. That angered her, but she couldn't do anything about it. Instead, she wondered whether there were any actual downsides to this agreement. So far it all seemed perfect.

"Hardly perfect. But these are the terms. Do you agree?"

"Yes," she spoke aloud, using her voice for the first time in their conversation.

It came out dry and cracked, and she opened her eyes – she hadn't realized she'd closed them. They opened on the cave, where the three shadow men stood gasping in front of her. Beside her, Sineya growled low in her throat, a feral sound. She found herself echoing it, and with little effort she pulled herself free.

"Run," she told the men, as Sineya dropped into a crouch beside her. Despite their obvious exhaustion, they obeyed.

--

Elishet finished her sword dance and moved smoothly into a new one. It hadn't taken long for her to discover the downsides of her so-called gift. In the beginning it was fine. She had Sineya, her sister, and together they slaughtered the demons. But the villagers were frightened of them and would not let them stay.

The two sisters were feral creatures, hunting the demons with a single-mindedness that neither could explain. And then, three years after their rebirth together, Sineya was killed. Elishet remembered the moment quite clearly, and it stood out in her mind as the first of many.

--

Eshe felt Sineya's death with an acuity that made her wish that she was dying too. Seconds later, she felt a pull to the north. Without needing to be told, she knew that she had a new sister. Immediately she began journeying in that direction.

Barely halfway through her journey, she felt the death of her new sister. Shocked, she stopped dead in her tracks as the girl's death-knowledge seeped into her brain.

Her name was Mahdi. She had become a woman three nights before Sineya's death, and two of the village boys had begun courting her. Then the spirits had touched her in a way that Mahdi couldn't understand. In desperation, she convinced the shaman to allow her to venture on a spirit quest. Alone and confused in the desert, it was a simple matter for the demons to overwhelm and slaughter her.

Eshe was devastated. Mahdi's death woke her out of the feral fog that had characterized her time with Sineya. Mentally awake and full of anguish, she felt for the pull of her newest sister. She was desperate to prevent the tragedy from happening again.

To her dismay, her new sister was even further south than Sineya's hunting grounds. Unless her new sister was incredibly luckily – and so far that did not seem a character trait present in their quickly-growing lineage – the new woman would be dead long before Eshe could reach her.

In fact, Eshe thought, if she tried to go to each new demon slayer, she would end up wondering aimlessly through the desert for the rest of her existence.

Scared and lonely and heart-sick, Eshe did something she would never have dreamed of doing before becoming the Anchor. She called on the gods to answer to her for what they had done.

The Spirit appeared almost immediately, but while she had been bold enough to summon him, she was not prepared to make specific demands. Instead, she petitioned him, begging for some way to help the newborn demon slayers.

"You have twice received death-knowledge," he told her. "And you have felt two births. You and the - what did you call them? Demon slayers? I like that. Anyway, you share an essence with the Demon Slayer. It isn't a strong enough connection to allow you to speak mind-to-mind, but it is certainly enough to share knowledge subconsciously."

He refused to be more specific or to tell her how to accomplish this sharing, but she had always been wiser than her years. When her third sister died five days later, Eshe pushed aside the heart-pain to capture the feeling of _sharing_, hoping to recreate it. When she felt the birth of her fourth sister, she attempted non-physical contact.

She sent the girl dreams, giving her a sense of her purpose by giving her the death-knowledge of Sineya, Mahdi, and Kaipra. It was not enough by itself, but at least the dreams would give the new Demon Slayer an idea of what was happening to her until Eshe could come.

And so, for the next thirty years, Eshe traveled. She found her sister and they hunted together. When her sister died, Eshe sent death-dreams to the next woman, found her, and taught her to kill.

Then a woman from the village of the shadow men was called.

They found her before Eshe could and seized her for their own. They trained her according to their own knowledge, isolating her from anything that might distract her from her purpose. While she was not feral like Sineya, the shadow men treated her as though she were.

Cut off from the village, her only human contact came through the men. She threw herself into slaying until she might as well have been Sineya herself, though she lacked the instinctual understanding of the Primeval forces that had made Sineya so effective. Eshe wept for this sister, but could not approach her without risking capture by the shadow men.

After that, the shadow men and their descendents began looking for the new Demon Slayers. Nearly half the time they reached the newly-born before Eshe could. After a while, she stopped trying.

By then, she had been the Anchor for almost two hundred years. She had experienced the awakening and the death of nearly that many sister Slayers. Even though the women that she found usually lived longer than those taken in by the shadow men, she found that she no longer had it in her heart to seek them out. She still sent them dreams, helping and encouraging them as best she could, but that was all.

Eshe finally understood what the spirit man had been talking about when he cautioned her about the heart sickness.

--

Elishet smiled while she swung her sword in a graceful arc. In the end, everything had worked out. The shadow men, who called themselves Watchers now, had perfected their ability to find and train new Slayers. They had begun finding girls _before_ they were called.

It seemed that, as it grew older, the Slayer essence came to prefer a certain type of woman – usually one as alike to herself as possible. It didn't _require_ anything more than a healthy mind and body, a proximity to demons, and the start of the moon cycles – and even then it really only needed the last one – but if given the choice between two girls, it was easy to predict which would become the new Slayer.

Her sisters usually lived at least a year now, and some made it as many as four or five. The record was seven years and three days. And while the death-knowledge was still painful, she'd had thousands of years to get used to it.

And what a time those years had been! She had watched the world expand around her, geographically and intellectually. The first time a Slayer had been called on another continent, she had been flummoxed. It amazed her and thrilled her, filling her with excitement. What would happen next? What could people imagine next? What lay beyond the horizon?

She continued to move around, staying mostly in the area around the Mediterranean Sea. Her last two decades had been spent in Greece. Near the end of her stay there, she met Xanthippe, the woman she would later claim as her mother. Elishet waited for twelve years after Xanthippe's death, then journeyed to Tyre to present herself as the King's daughter.

She liked being a princess. It suited her. And, more surprisingly, so did the marriage she now found herself in.

Oh, she had married before, of course. Some were marriages of convenience, when society balked at the idea of an unmarried woman, and these husbands were quickly forgotten. A much smaller number of marriages had been for love, and here she could name every partner, every lover.

She had even given children to three of her husbands. Three sons and a daughter. All had lived gloriously, and all had themselves died childless. Warriors they had been, all of them. Even her daughter, who had been called as Slayer at 12 and survived an incredible 7 years.

But her true love had been for a man called Achert. She had loved him passionately for their 35 years of life together. Of all her lovers, he was the only one to know everything about her, both her Immortality and her status as the Anchor. She bore him a son, the only one of her children who had lived beyond 20.

What surprised her about her marriage with Sychaeus was that she loved him. She had expected a marriage of convenience, in which she felt fondness for her husband but nothing more. To her surprise, her marriage was turning out to be far more meaningful.

During their 6 month long betrothal, she had begun to love the man she had agreed to marry. By the time their wedding night arrived, she had fallen hard and fast. She found herself as passionately in love with this strong, calm, intelligent man as she had been with Achert at the beginning of their relationship.

It wasn't even the intensity of her emotions that surprised her – it was the speed with which they came on. As far as she was concerned, a year long romance was love at first sight – and that was how she felt about her new husband.

As if her thoughts had summoned his attention, a knock came on the door of her inner chamber. She sheathed her sword and replaced it on the wall. Smoothing out the carefully wrapped silk of her dress, she turned to face the door.

"Enter," she commanded.

The door opened to reveal one of the slaves that had been a wedding gift from Sychaeus. The slave bowed low, keeping her eyes on the floor. Behind the girl she could see one of Sychaeus's personal slaves standing demurely by the door.

"Mistress, your husband requests your company."

"Very well," she agreed. "I will be along shortly."

She had no intention of skipping the bath that she had ordered drawn. Sychaeus wouldn't expect her to come directly, or his slave would have said as much. Her slave bowed low, then retreated to confer with Sychaeus's slave. His slave nodded, bowed to Elishet, then left.

Elishet strolled over to the steaming water and held out her arms. Immediately a new slave was there, gently disrobing her. A second took the jewels out of her hair, allowing the long yellow waves to spill down her back. She could have disrobed herself, of course, but she was enjoying the luxury of being a wealthy lady. Her last lifetime had been spent as a basket weaver.

She stepped into the hot bath, and gave herself completely over to the tender ministrations of her slaves. They washed her skin, then rubbed her with sweet smelling oils. One girl, a Greek whose name she could never remember, was specially trained to work with Elishet's hair. While an older woman washed Elishet's fair skin, the Greek washed her hair.

After the bath, which was over more quickly than Elishet liked, the women began to dress her. The Greek began piling her hair up, teasing it into artful curls. The other slave began to drape the light pink silk over Elishet's body in attractive folds and waves.

When they were finished, Elishet looked herself over in the sheet of polished silver that had been a wedding present from her father. She looked impeccable, light and refreshing. Sychaeus would be pleased.

--

"You look lovely, my dear," Sychaeus smiled as she sauntered through the door to his chambers. He held out a hand to her, and she moved over to take it.

"Thank you," she smiled, allowing a hint of a blush to color her cheeks. He liked her innocence, and she took care to always give him what he liked best.

Sychaeus was a handsome man. He was 43, an old man by most standards, but still a child to her. Tall and wiry, Sychaeus towered over her by more than a full head. He had long black hair with thick silver streaks at the temple, and a smile as guileless as a little boy's.

Shyly she turned to look out the window toward the king's palace. She could feel his warmth to her left, a quiet well of strength and serenity that had impressed her from the beginning. Sychaeus was a good man, and a good husband.

"How is my brother?" he inquired softly.

Elishet grimaced. "Not well. I doubt he has more than a few days left. You should go to him," she added, gently squeezing the hand that she still held.

"I know," he sighed. "I'm just not sure that he wants to see a High Priest right now." _While he's on his death bed_ was left unsaid, but not unheard.

"Perhaps not," she shrugged, then turned to look up at him through her lashes. "But his brother? I know my father, Sychaeus, and I know you. You should go to him."

"My beautiful Elishet," he sighed, reaching up to stroke her cheek. "Always trying to help others."

"Will you go to him?" she pressed. Despite being the Immortal Anchor for a line of female warriors, Elishet still had a heart, and she was still quite capable of love. Even knowing that Sychaeus would die and leave her heart sick, Elishet found herself loving this man. She wanted him to be happy, and he wouldn't be happy if he didn't visit his dying brother.

"I'll think about it," he told her, hand dropping back to his side.

She knew that conversation was over, and let the subject drop. For the rest of the evening, they kept their topics light. They dined together, walked together, and then went to bed together.

Three weeks later, King Belus II died.

Elishet was Queen.

And Pygmalion was King.

--

**A/N:** dun dun dun duuuuun. Next chapter will be more of Elishet/Dido's story. There may be a few flashbacks to Eshe's life in later chapters, but now that you have my version of the Immortal/Slayer dynamic, that story fades into the background.

Let me know if you have any questions, and I hope you enjoyed my work.


	3. Carthage: Byrsa

**Disclaimer:** Highlander does not belong to me. Buffy the Vampire Slayer does not belong to me. I gain no profit from the creation of this story beyond personal writing experience.

**A/N:** Again, everything presented here is equal parts research, conjecture, and creative license.

* * *

**Carthage: _Byrsa_**

* * *

**Tyre, 814 B.C.**  
--

The Apocalypse loomed dark in the future of the Phoenician Empire.

Elishet stood in the Temple of Melqart, staring out across the city toward the palace she shared with her husband. Her vision was blurred by burning tears that hadn't fallen in a century or more. Behind her lay the corpse of her husband, his blood spread in a thin film across the granite floor. Her white silk dress was stained red where she had cradled Sychaeus's cold body against her breast.

Murdered.

Someone must pay for this travesty.

She knew in the back of her mind that she wasn't being rational. She was sinking into a feral fog, and she couldn't bring herself to care. The Primeval force that she had so long housed in her body stirred with excitement. For the first time since Sineya died, it had an opportunity for free reign – and it knew what they wanted.

Pygmalion's head on a platter. The city of Tyre on its knees for daring to choose that tyrant over Elishet. And, while they were at it, they might as well take on the entire Empire. Elishet would bathe in blood tonight.

A startled cry caught her attention, and she turned to glare at the intruder with eyes that seemed to glow with rage.

"Lord Sychaeus! Oh, Majesty, what has happened?"

Elishet recognized the chief of the Temple servants and her initial impulse was to slaughter him like someone had slaughtered Sychaeus. But she could smell his shock, dismay, and his real sorrow – this man had nothing to do with the death of her husband.

"My husband is dead," she said, voice hollow. "Baalhanno, I need you to send word to my household – _quietly_ – and warn them to be on their guard."

"Your Majesty…"

"Do it. It is not safe for me here, nor is it safe for anyone who loved Lord Sychaeus. I do not want my brother knowing I was here. Do you understand, Baalhanno?"

"My Queen, I do. And… And My Lord's body?" he queried, voice wavering.

"Leave him," she commanded, turning back to stare blindly across the city. "I wish to stay with him for a time."

There was a soft rustling of cloth, which Elishet presumed was the temple servant bowing, and then the door opened and shut softly. Alone once more, she walked slowly back to Sychaeus's body. She knelt beside him, ignoring the blood soaking into her white skirts. The dress was already ruined, and blood was nothing new to her.

Sychaeus was not the first loved one that she had lost to violence, nor would he be the last. Thousands of her sisters had been brutally murdered during her long memory – but never had she lost a human lover to human greed. This was a new kind of pain, and it was pain that Elishet had no experience dealing with.

"One year," she murmured, reaching to brush the hair out of his sightless eyes. "We have been married for only one year – barely a heartbeat in my life. But know that I will always remember you, and I will always love you."

Elishet leaned over and kissed his cold lips. She closed his eyes with gentle fingers, pressing a soft kiss on each eyelid as she did so. It was macabre, but it filled her with a sense of peace. This was goodbye.

Sychaeus's calm serenity settled over her shoulders like a blanket, cooling her raging blood. The Primeval in her wished to slaughter the man she was sure was responsible for Sychaeus's murder, but she knew the time was not right. If there was anything she had learned during her many lifetimes, it was that she could outlast any enemy.

Right now, Pygmalion's guards would be quadrupled. She had no doubt that her movements would be very closely watched, and that she would be unable to get anywhere near her co-ruler without him knowing her every breath.

For now, it would be impractical to kill him. But in a year, ten years… _she_ would remember this moment. She would remember sitting here, cradling the corpse of the man that she had loved so much she had offered to give him a child. _She_ would remember, and when Pygmalion let down his guard, she would be there to run him through with her beautiful jeweled sword.

This was a grudge she would carry with her forever.

--

_The waves crashed into the jagged rocks, soaking her skirts with salty water. She looked upwards over the sea, eyes searching the stars for an answer to her desperate questions. Why Sychaeus? Why now? But all the astrological skill in the world couldn't answer her questions. So she looked beyond them into the velvet blackness of the night sky._

"Spirit, if you hear me, answer!"

Her anguished cry was quickly lost to the roar of the ocean, but she held her breath in hope. Always, always the Spirit came when she called. For as long as she could remember, from the dawn of human history, the Spirit had been her Guide and her friend. She had come to love him deeply, and it hurt her that he didn't come to her now, when she needed his friendship the most.

"Please," she whispered in her native tongue, a language long forgotten by mortal man. "I need you."

"Eshe, my darling."

She whirled, staring at the apparition. She felt her heart would burst, because there he stood, vibrant and familiar and alive. She didn't ask how he knew her True Name or how he spoke the language of her childhood. That was irrelevant. All that mattered was that someone had answered her call.

With a soft cry, she threw herself into her husband's arms. He stroked her hair, whispering soothingly as she shivered against him.

They stood there together for a time before she stepped back with a sigh. She kept her arms around his waist, and his thumb stroked her cheek gently as they held each other.

"I love you, Sychaeus," she told him, because there was nothing else to say.

"I have always loved you, my dear, in this lifetime and others."

"My Lord?" she asked, frowning in confusion.

It was not often that she was confused – though considering the fact that she was standing on the inaccessible rocks at the bottom of the cliffs below her palace, talking to her dead husband, she really shouldn't be surprised.

He smiled mysteriously and shook his head. She let it go as unimportant. The important thing was that she stood in her husband's arms again.

"Time is short, my dear. There is nothing left for you in Tyre except pain and loss. Take a ship and sail west, past Egypt. Bring your household and as many able-bodied men and women as you can. I have treasure enough hidden away – I want you to be happy, Queen of my heart. Go to the garden, to our tree where I asked you to marry me, and hidden beneath the roots there are two keys. The silver key opens the door in the basement that is always locked. The gold key opens a door in the Temple. Baalhanno will know which one – you can trust him. Everything in these rooms is for you, Eshe."

She nodded, not questioning the instructions. She wouldn't miss Tyre. Sychaeus was right – with the death of the man she had taken as her father and now the death of her husband, Tyre meant nothing to her. It would be no real hardship to pack up and move again.

"I will never join you in the After Life," she said suddenly. Her heart twisted painfully at this confession. It hurt so much to know that there was something that came after death, but that it was a place she could never go, a gift she could never receive. When – if_ – she ever died, she would simply cease to exist._

When her loved ones died, they were lost to her forever – and that was heart sickness.

Sychaeus's face was suffused with sorrow as he held her to his chest. She felt him press a kiss on the top of her head, and she closed her eyes to savor the sensation.

"Perhaps not," he murmured into her hair. "But I will hold you in my heart, and I promise that we will meet again."

"I love you, Sychaeus."

"I love you, Queen Elishet of Tyre." 

--

"Pygmalion."

Elishet didn't bother to give the slave time to announce her presence. She simply strolled into her brother's rooms with a calculated familiarity. This was a choreographed encounter, whether Pygmalion knew it or not. Everything from her entrance to her appearance was carefully selected to give the boy a message that even _he_ could subconsciously understand.

She had instructed her slaves to leave her hair down today, and it curled around her waist in a golden waterfall. The studied casualness of the style was offset by her elaborate headdress and jewelry, and the layers of royal purple silk that encased her body. She wore more wealth about her person this morning than was contained in the most expensive of Pygmalion's court costumes.

"Elishet. What are you doing here?" Pygmalion reclined on a couch in his private chambers, two slaves massaging his feet and a third carefully tending his nails.

Elishet was displeased but unsurprised. Her little brother was as lazy as he was greedy – which only made it more galling that the people of their city chose to look to him for leadership. She quelled the urge to rip out his heart and stuff it up his ass. Patience, she reminded herself. He would get what was coming to him soon enough.

"I wish to travel. With the death of my husband, this city holds nothing but pain for me." And danger, in the form of the recumbent teenager.

Pygmalion's interest was piqued. He sat up, waving the slaves away with a careless gesture. "Where would you go?"

"Sidon," she shrugged. "North by sea. Perhaps further. I do not wish to return here until this sorrow weighs less heavily on my heart."

"When do you wish to leave?" The dog sounded almost eager to be rid of her. She barely held in her sneer. In his place, she would do everything possible to keep her enemies under personal supervision.

"Immediately. As soon as a ship can be found for my household and our supplies."

The calculating look on Pygmalion's face let her know exactly what he was thinking. With the absence of both Elishet _and_ her household, there would be no one to stand in the way of his own agents tearing Sychaeus's palace apart for his treasure. She found it difficult to maintain the calm façade of mourning when her stomach was clenched with rage.

"My dearest sister, you shall have the three best ships of our fleet!" She wondered if he had intended the 'our' to reflect the joint nature of their rule or to act as the royal 'we'. Had he gotten clever enough to use double meanings?

"How kind," she demurred. "I would never have presumed to ask."

"It is my pleasure, Elishet," he beamed at her. He looked entirely too pleased with himself as he lay back into his pillows, motioning the three slaves to resume their attentions.

She gave him a cool smile that showed nothing of what she was thinking, then turned and left his presence.

--

"Dump them," Elishet commanded. The palace servants stared at her in horror, and she inwardly sneered at their discomfort. Not that she could _really_ blame them. After all, when they returned to her brother with this news it was unlikely that any of them would survive the encounter.

"My Lady," one murmured, shifting uncomfortably. "Is that…proper?"

Elishet's expression darkened at the double insult. Not only had this _servant_ demoted her from Queen to mere lady, he had _dared_ to question whether her actions were _proper_. If he had meant to earn leniency for himself and his crewmates, he had gone about it in entirely the wrong way.

"It is the _only_ proper course," she said severely. "We must make a sacrifice in honor of my husband before we can leave on such a journey – what better sacrifice than his wealth? It will ease his passage greatly, and what need have I for his gold? My brother has blessed this voyage, and I have gold enough of my own – as _Queen_. It is only right and proper that Sychaeus's wealth follows him into the afterlife. _So throw it overboard_."

Her own household was already hard at work throwing the heavy bags over the side of the ship she had chosen as her flagship. Three priests from the Temple of Melqart stood in the bow, chanting prayers to accompany the sacrifice. These three were Sychaeus's closest friends, and had elected to join Elishet in her journey. They were intelligent enough to know that whoever became High Priest now would walk a dangerous path, and a known connection to the dead would be inviting trouble.

Slowly, obviously cowed by her words and the eerie chanting of the priests, the palace servants got to work. Many were still dragging their feet, but some looked resolved. She inwardly smiled. She had already determined that any of Pygmalion's servants who asked to join her voyage would be made welcome.

The man who had dared speak up continued to look nervous and rebellious, but under the watchful eyes of Baalhanno, he was unable to do anything but through the bags into the deep water.

The oldest of the priests, a foreigner who had joined the Temple of Melqart in Sidon, joined her where she stood leaning against the railing at the back of the ship.

"Aren't you supposed to be chanting, Emrys?" she inquired drolly, eyes still focused on the city across the water.

"Two priests should be quite sufficient to bless a tribute of sand," he returned dryly, folding his arms against the wooden rails to her left.

Elishet grinned, turning her head to meet his eyes. "I should have expected you – the three of you – to figure it all out. Or did Baalhanno tell you?"

"Baalhanno," he admitted. "Though even if I hadn't known beforehand, the evidence of my eyes would have been sufficient. I know what a bag of gold looks like. You're just lucky that no one else appears to know the difference between bags of gold and sand."

"Luck has little to do with it," she said. "My household knows the truth, and those who could not be trusted were sold before Sychaeus's body was cold in his tomb. As for Pygmalion's servants…Well, the less said about my brother's choices, the better."

Emrys grinned at her, and Elishet smiled back. She didn't know the priest well, but she had dined with him and his two companions several times over the past year. She knew that they had loved Sychaeus, and that he had regarded them as trustworthy and intelligent men. It would lighten her heart significantly to have them along, especially since Emrys at least appeared to have a sense of humor.

"Queen Elishet - I beg your pardon Lord Emrys – My Queen, the tribute is complete."

"Thank you, Baalhanno. If you will excuse me, Lord Emrys, I must see to the start of our journey."

"By all means," Emrys gestured with an open hand, bowing his head graciously. She returned the gesture of respect, then swept down to Baalhanno's side.

It was time to begin again.

--

In the end, all but three of the palace servants had elected to join Elishet on the journey. Later, she heard that the three who returned to Pygmalion had been tortured to death for what her brother considered treason. It had not been a popular move, as the servants had made it known that Elishet, _Queen_ Elishet, had ordered the sacrifice as a proper tribute to her deceased husband – as was only right and fitting, the people of Tyre murmured.

Elishet found it ironic that it was her departing gesture that endeared her to the hearts of her people. Had she stayed afterwards, or returned, she could probably seize complete power from her brother – especially after his foolish treatment of those who had remained faithful to him against the odds.

She had also earned a new name, and her people who journeyed with her had embraced it with gusto. She was rarely called Elishet anymore, even by those she had selected as personal companions and advisors.

Dido, she was called. The Wanderer. Already there were romantic retellings of her departure from Tyre, and the dramatic gesture that was both tribute to her husband and defiance against her brother. She was being upheld as a model of virtue for women, and Emrys had informed her – tongue in cheek – that there had been a sudden increase in the number of women becoming priestesses.

Upon landing at a Temple of Ishtar two months after their departure from Tyre, in fact, there had been such an overflow of priestesses that it had been an easy matter to convince twenty virgins to join the expedition as wives to some of her followers. This, of course, amused Elishet to no end – though she was glad for the female company.

They had now been at sea for five months. They had gone first to Sidon, as she had told her brother, though they stayed there only long enough to buy fresh food. After that, she had taken them west, as Sychaeus had told her in her dream.

She had felt his presence twice since then, though she hadn't had so clear a dream. Once had been while she slept, and she felt as though someone cradled her from behind. The second time had been a confusing sense that behind Sychaeus was Achert, and behind her first lover was someone else – but not behind. When she had woken from this dream, it had been with a fading sense of recognition that she couldn't understand.

As they sailed west, they heard many stories that cast fear into the hearts of many in the company. The Horsemen of the Apocalypse rode these lands, west of the Red Sea. They were the terror of the known world, some said, and they had decimated entire armies in only weeks. Worse, they had been riding for centuries now, and they could not be killed by any means known to mortal man.

Elishet did not fear them. She knew that they were Immortals, and had been warriors for many years – but she had been a warrior longer, and she had strength and speed they could not hope to match, even with all the experience in the world. If they attacked her people, she would risk exposure and fight.

What surprised her was that she was not the only one who seemed to know the truth about the Horsemen.

All three priests seemed comfortable with the idea of legendary warriors, and Emrys seemed to always know more than he was telling. While the other priests shrugged at the mention of the Horsemen, Emrys would give a cryptic smile. Baalhanno also seemed to know something of the truth, though he still seemed to fear them.

Elishet wondered if they knew that she knew, or if they simply dismissed her own lack of fear as an act of leadership. But no one would admit to their knowledge in order to ask, so it remained an unspoken secret between them all.

At least the calm serenity of the voyage's leaders helped ease the fear of their companions.

--

Sixth months out, they discovered a natural harbor carved into the northern shore of Africa. A large hill dominated the bay, and Elishet admired it for the possibilities it presented.

They were all weary of the constant journeying, even with frequent rests and short stops. Somewhere in the last two months, Elishet had come to the conclusion that they needed a permanent resting place. They now had everything they needed to establish a small city, and she had wealth enough to buy anything they still lacked. The idea of settling in Africa, her homeland, pleased her greatly.

The hill over the harbor was the ideal place to build a city. It was an easy landmark, easily defensible, and beautiful. The area was fertile enough to support local food, and the harbor was ideal for fostering the maritime trade to which the people from Tyre were accustomed.

Elishet turned to face her people gathered on the deck. She smiled at them, and lifted her arms in a welcoming gesture. The purple silk of her dress fluttered in the wind, and her golden hair shone brighter than a crown in the morning sun. Later, Emrys told her that she looked like a goddess standing there on the bow of their ship, a holy queen stepped down to bestow her blessing on the multitude. Even his eyes had reflected the awe and joy that she had seen in the faces of her followers.

"My friends, we have come Home!"

The cheer was deafening.

--

It took longer than Elishet had anticipated to make her promise a reality.

She knew that the area must be controlled by a local tribe, but she could find no sign of them. Several scouting groups were sent out, and she had even gone on one of them herself to make sure that they knew what to look for. It seemed imprudent to begin setting up even an impermanent settlement until she could negotiate with the tribe – after all, she knew even better than most what was likely to happen to anyone who dared intrude.

After three weeks anchored in the harbor, the company was getting restless. It took her, the priests, and Baalhanno together to keep everyone calm and rational in face of growing agitation. Luckily some people were keeping their heads, and Elishet made a point of personally thanking each of the twenty ex-priestesses who were doing their best to keep their husbands distracted.

Finally one of the scouting parties brought word of the tribe, and Elishet sighed with relief. It was a tribe she was familiar with, though she hadn't had dealings with them for ninety some years. No one would recognize her and she was fluent in the trade language of the network this tribe was part of.

As soon as the news reached the ship, Elishet began preparing for the upcoming meeting. She sent a messenger to the tribe after spending several hours coaching him in the pronunciation and flow of the trade language. He was a bright child, the youngest of their company at 12, and had a talent for language that Emrys had been fostering during the journey. Although he couldn't understand all that she told him to say, she trusted his ability to repeat it inflection for inflection, and to take back to her exactly what was said by the chief of the tribe.

The boy returned just after nightfall. He returned her greeting of respect, thanks for the gift she had sent, and an invitation to meet the chief at dawn.

Elishet woke an hour before dawn to wash and dress. Two women – freed slaves – had long since taken up the role as her personal attendants. After so long in harbor, it was no great difficulty for them to make her presentable.

She was bathed using her ever-dwindling supply of scented oils. Her hair was combed and bound up in an elaborate headdress that emphasized her golden curls – exotic in this area, and likely to impress the locals. She dressed in bright white silks that dazzled the eyes in the sun, with a purple sash and an ornate gold belt. She went barefoot, enjoying the feeling of the ground beneath her toes. Elishet was tall for a woman, though still shorter than most men. Still, anything helped.

Accompanied by Emrys and Baalhanno, she followed the boy back to the tribe's encampment.

The chief was a small man with dark skin and strong shoulders. He brought back memories of her life before her first death, of the chief of her own tribe that she could only vaguely remember. Despite being shorter than Elishet, the chief commanded respect.

"Greetings Father-of-the-Tribe," Elishet said in the trade tongue. "I am Wanderer, Dido in the language of my people. I am Tribe Mother."

It was unusual for the leader of a tribe to be female, but not unheard of. The chief looked only slightly skeptical, and was regarding the two men flanking her with some curiosity. He accepted her claim, however, and did not question her.

"Greetings Mother Wanderer. I am Kiyet. You are welcome here with your tribe."

Elishet knew that the welcome was not an invitation to settle, or even to stay for a short time. It was a standard offer of hospitality that would last only as long as Kiyet wished it to last.

"Thank you for your gift of hospitality. As guest gift, I have brought to you the bracelet that graced the wrist of Ienia, She-who-battled-on-the-great-cliffs. This is but a token of my regard for you and for your people."

Ienia had been the reason for her involvement in the area ninety years ago. The 16 year old had been called late in life as Slayer, after already bearing three children to the chief. From the lighter color of his eyes and the bright smile, Elishet was almost positive that Chief Kiyet was the son of the son of Ienia and had heard stories of his grandmother. The bracelet had been a gift from Ienia's husband on the birth of their son. When Ienia fell in battle, Elishet had taken it as a way of remembering the Slayer. She had always intended to return it to the family, but she had been forced to leave before she could. It gave her great pleasure to gift it to Ienia's grandson now, and it gave her even more pleasure to see what had become of Ienia's descendents.

The expression on Kiyet's face was almost comical in its awe and delight. He appeared to hold his breath as Elishet removed the beaten copper and gold circle from her own wrist and offered it to Kiyet on her open palm. He picked it up carefully, almost reverently, grinning widely in delight.

"This is indeed an honorable gift. Come. Tell me what you desire, Wanderer, for you are indeed a true friend of this tribe."

Elishet grinned inwardly. She had expected Kiyet to know the gift for what it was, but she hadn't dared hope for such an excellent response.

"My people and I are weary, Kiyet. We have journey for many long months, fleeing from a terrible man in the east, a man who murdered my husband and stole the throne that was mine by right. All we ask is for a place to rest our heads. A place to call home. In exchange, we will pay you a tribute for the land on which we build our city. What say you?"

"I say 'my people have lived on this land for many generations.' I say 'how can I give to your people that which gives mine their life.'"

Elishet remained silent, knowing that the chief was not yet finished speaking. He would likely wax eloquent about the value and necessity of all the land in his territory – but she knew by the sparkle in his eyes and the little smile on his lips and the way he held on tightly to Ienia's bracelet that he would give the land to her without second thought.

He continued in the expected vein for nearly five minutes, and Elishet spared a glance toward her companions. They all looked serene and hopeful, and she knew that it was at least in small part because they could not understand the exchange of words that was taking place. Finally Kiyet wound down.

"For a fist of gold every harvest, I will give you the land marked out by a single ox hide. This is my offer."

Kiyet looked at her expectantly, and she knew that he expected her to try and bargain him down. One fistful of gold for a single ox hide of land was ridiculous, especially for someone named a friend of the tribe. But Elishet had received training of a sort unfamiliar to Kiyet. She had learned politics and mathematics during her stay in Tyre, and Kiyet had used an interesting choice of words.

He had said _marked out by_ an ox hide. Not cover, not lay over. _Marked out_. If she cut it into thin strips, an ox hide could really hold quite a lot of land. In fact, she mentally did the calculations, if the hide were on the large side and she used the water as a boundary, she could probably fit the entire hill by the harbor inside.

Elishet smiled. In that case, she would be getting by far the better end of the deal. She could afford to let Kiyet think her something of a fool while she and Emrys and Baalhanno circled the hill. Afterwards he would respect her quite a lot, and she would give him two fistfuls of gold as a gesture of good faith. It would show her to be both clever _and_ honorable, and put her in excellent standing among the local tribes.

"You are most generous, Kiyet, and for my people I thank you. We are grateful for your offer and we accept your terms on the condition that we have tomorrow to prepare."

Kiyet looked scandalized, and Elishet felt a little bad about depriving the man of a spirited bartering session. But oh well. She would make up for it later, when their city was established and she had goods to trade. For now, she had a city to stake.

--

"You are a worthy ally, Wanderer," was all Kiyet said when he saw what she had done with the ox hide.

Cut into slender strips and carefully fastened together, the hide more than encircled the hill and the beach, leaving the now-settlers with room to grow. Kiyet clasped her hand, accepted the fistful of gold, and returned again the next day to watch them begin the building process.

And thus was born the city of Carthage.

--

**A/N:** Emrys is the Immortal who gave Darius his "Light Quickening" during the second century A.D., if you were wondering.


	4. Carthage: Queen Dido

**Disclaimer:** Highlander does not belong to me. Buffy the Vampire Slayer does not belong to me. I gain no profit from the creation of this story beyond personal writing experience.

**A/N:** In this chapter I made the transition from calling her **Elishet** to calling her **Dido**. Don't be confused by this change! All it means is that she has changed the way she thinks of herself.

Once again, what is presented here as history is equal parts research, conjecture, and creative license.

* * *

**Carthage: _Queen Dido_**

* * *

**Carthage, 811 B.C.**

--

It had been just over two years since the founding of the city, and Dido could hardly believe how far they had come. From the original two hundred that had voyaged with her, the city had grown to nearly twice that. Already they were spilling out of the confines of the ox hide, much to her chagrin. So far Kiyet had accepted this expansion, but Dido worried that if they expanded too far they could spark a war.

Her personal relationship with the chief was good, and they had become friends as well as allies. Last year he had made an offer for her hand on behalf of his son, but she had graciously refused. As a widow and a Queen, she had no need to justify herself through marriage.

"Thinking hard, Dido?" Baalhanno inquired with a gentle smile.

Dido turned to smile back at the older man. The Temple servant had proved an invaluable resource, both as steward and as a friend. She had long since given him a title and prestige, and he had given her his unwavering loyalty. Baalhanno and Emrys had become her greatest helpers, to the extent that they were often considered extensions of herself by the people of Carthage.

"Too hard," she admitted. "I am worried about the growth of the city. It is healthy now, but can we sustain ourselves as we grow? Can we grow without offending Kiyet and the other local tribes? Already we are nearly twice the number of Kiyet's people, and three times the number of Qesh's."

"Has Kiyet indicated any displeasure?"

Dido shrugged. "Nothing obvious, but he brought up marriage again the other day. I think he believes a marriage to his son will allow our 'tribes' to become one, which will allow for our expansion."

Baalhanno was silent for a long moment, refusing to meet Dido's eyes. For a second she was confused, but as he drew breath to speak it hit her – Baalhanno thought she should marry.

"No, Baalhanno," she said. "No. It has not even been three years since Sychaeus's death. I will not marry again so soon after the murder of my husband."

He closed his mouth and looked chagrined, but when he met her eyes she could tell that he hadn't changed his mind. He really believed that she should remarry. Dido sighed. It wouldn't be the first time that she had married against her wishes – but not yet. Three years was not long enough to someone as immune to time as Dido.

"Maybe someday," she said. Baalhanno nodded, and that was the end of the conversation. She resolved never to bring the subject up with him again.

"Oh, and Dido – Emrys is looking for you," said Baalhanno. "He's by the docks, I believe."

"Thank you." She hoped the conversation with Emrys would go down easier than the unspoken argument that now lay between herself and her steward.

--

"Hello, Elishet!"

Dido smiled and waved to the only person who persisted in calling her by her Tyrian name. It had been easy for her to adapt to having a new name, and it had barely taken three months for her to begin thinking of herself as 'Dido' rather than 'Elishet.' She didn't mind Emrys's persistence, though, and it was sometimes nice to hear the familiar sound of her old name on the lips of a friend.

It helped remind her that, while this was a new life, it wasn't the death of the old life.

Not for the first time, she wondered how much the old priest knew and how much he guessed about the truth of her existence. Times like these she regretted giving up the ability to sense other Immortals – it would be nice to know what she was dealing with. She had already long since identified Baalhanno as a Watcher by the tattoo on his wrist. But who was he Watching? Her guess was Emrys, as they had both been part of the Temple of Melqart back in Tyre.

"Emrys, my brother," she leaned over to kiss his cheek. "Baalhanno said you were looking for me."

"I was," he agreed. "A diplomatic envoy just arrived from King Iarbus of the Mauritan."

"They're south of us, right?"

"Correct. Apparently Iarbus is exceedingly impressed by 'Queen Dido of Byrsa,' and wishes to form an alliance."

His subtle inflection on the word _alliance_ almost made Dido groan. Apparently the world was conspiring against her on the subject of marriage. She gave Emrys a plaintive look, and received a friendly yet merciless grin in return.

"It's a plot," she grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest like a child.

"Of course it is," Emrys agreed mildly. "Either that or you are too pretty to waste on widow-hood, and everyone but you knows it. Oh wait," he paused theatrically, tapping his chin.

Dido swatted his arm lightly as she giggled. Emrys grinned back at her, and she stuck out her tongue. In many ways, the priest was very much the brother she had greeted him as. A much younger brother, of course, but a beloved one. She loved him, and found herself desperately hoping that he _was_ an Immortal as she suspected. It would be nice to have a family who could not-grow old beside you.

"In all seriousness, Elishet, I encourage you to consider King Iarbus's proposal. At the very least, send a representative back with his envoy when the time comes. Perhaps there is a sister of Iarbus who could use a husband."

"Are you volunteering?" Dido raised an eyebrow, and Emrys quickly shook his head.

"I was thinking Baalhanno, actually. He's getting on in years, and it would be a good reward for him to marry the sister or daughter of a king."

"So you noticed, too," she said, all humor leaving her voice.

"To tell the truth, I'm surprised _you_ did," he said. "The young so often miss such things. You are a remarkable leader, Queen Elishet, and you surprise me time and again with the depth of your wisdom – yet you are only, what, 19, 20 years old?"

"21," she corrected carefully. "And you cannot be _that_ much my senior, Emrys. Sychaeus told me you entered the service of Melqart when you were 22, and you came to Tyre not so long after. You were nearly of an age with Sychaeus – surely you are no more than 40 at the outside."

Emrys gave the uncomfortable half shrug of a person caught without an answer. She let it go, pretending that she thought his shrug meant he did not want to own up to his age. He pretended not to know that she was pretending, and they exchanged wary smiles.

Someday she would find out the truth, and that was enough for her.

--

Baalhanno himself accompanied the envoy back to King Iarbus. He went with instructions to establish an alliance, perhaps even take a wife himself, and then return home to Carthage. For two months, Dido and Emrys made due without the skilled stewardship of their friend. When he returned, it was not with a new wife.

--

The courtyard was full. As many citizens of Carthage as could be away from their work were present for the return of the steward Baalhanno. Everyone was eager to hear what agreement had been reached with Iarbus. The Mauritan king had been quite adamant about the marriage – no doubt whatever tale Baalhanno brought back about the negotiation would be lively and engaging.

No one doubted for a moment that some agreement had been reached that would not require their beloved Queen to leave the infant city.

Dido sat on a raised platform so that she could see and be seen by everyone in the room. She was wearing white and purple, her blonde hair bound up in the elaborate golden headdress that she had jokingly begun to call her crown. She smiled over at Baalhanno.

Baalhanno did not smile back, but he nodded respectfully. He looked tense, and Dido was a bit worried. Had something happened on the trip? But before she could rethink the public greeting ceremony, Baalhanno was approaching her throne.

"Queen Dido, I have returned to Carthage and to you." He bowed.

"Steward Baalhanno, I welcome you back to Carthage. I trust your voyage was a success."

"I believe so, my Queen," Baalhanno finally smiled.

"What word do you bring from King Iarbus of the Mauritan?"

"King Iarbus was most impressed by the rumor of your wisdom and cleverness, my Queen. He much desires to meet with you and learn more about the culture that shaped such a remarkable woman."

"Did you tell King Iarbus that our gates are open to him for so long as his intentions are peaceful? If he wishes to learn about our culture, he is very welcome in our city."

"I extended just such an invitation, but King Iarbus has the same difficulty as you, my Queen. He is the ruler of a people who need him. It would be unfair to his people if he left them simply to admire another culture."

"It would indeed," Dido said. She nodded her agreement, though she felt a growing reservation about the whole situation. Something odd was going on, but she couldn't figure out what. It felt as though a trap was being set, but she couldn't see where the danger was coming from.

"King Iarbus and I discussed another solution, if it would please you, my Queen. The Mauritans have a university, and would be quite pleased if several of our people would be willing to journey there to live and teach alongside the Mauritani people."

Dido smiled, fighting against the rising sense of entrapment. There was no danger in agreeing to send her people to learn from their neighbors.

"There is only one problem, Queen Dido," Baalhanno said.

"What is that?" Dido leaned forward in her chair, curious what problem there could possibly be with the proposal.

"There is worry that the people of Carthage may not be willing to leave this fair and prosperous city for an unknown land filled with people who speak another language and practice different customs."

The people in the courtyard shifted, and a low mutter began to build.

"That's ridiculous," Dido scoffed. "The people of Carthage are adventurers, Baalhanno! I hope you told King Iarbus as much."

Her people cheered at her proclamation, and Baalhanno seemed to barely resist turning around to look at the crowd.

"I did," Baalhanno said, giving her a little bow. "And said that I was sure you would support the decision – even mandate it, if no one volunteered."

"That is an acceptable proposal," she said, nodding once in acknowledgement. "I declare it the duty of all good citizens of our city to rise to the challenge of forming a diplomatic relationship with the Mauritani through shared scholarship and community."

"King Iarbus specifically requested that it be you to travel to the university, my Queen, and that you come as his wife, to share and spread the Phoenician culture throughout the Mauritani kingdom." Baalhanno looked entirely too smug.

--

Emrys felt himself quiver with rage as he watched Elishet's back stiffen. Her face lost all emotion, but he knew her well enough by now to know that she was furious. How _could_ he? How could Baalhanno betray her like that? Betray them _all_? Emrys did not pretend to think that the budding city would survive long with only himself or Baalhanno to govern it.

Carthage needed its Queen.

"Very well," Elishet said quietly, voice echoing in the suddenly silent chamber. "I, too, am a citizen of Carthage. I will do my duty to my people."

She stood, and she looked to Emrys like a sacrificial virgin knowingly mounting the altar. In that moment, Emrys loved her more than he had ever loved anyone or would ever love anyone after.

Her people stood with her, eyes full of the same love and devotion that Emrys knew was etched onto his own face. Right now, these people would follow this woman, their beloved Queen, to the ends of the earth and beyond.

He found he could no longer look at this woman as merely Sychaeus's young wife, as simply his own little sister Elishet. She became for him Dido, as she was for the rest of Carthage. The Wanderer, a Queen of legend in the making. And now she would wander far from home, and it broke his heart.

Only Baalhanno stared up at her with resentment. Until that moment, Emrys had not thought the other man was capable of such actions. After all they had been through together, the steward had thrown their friendship and respect away in a mad gamble for power that he did not need – and, Emrys now realized, that the man had never deserved.

Baalhanno watched Dido leave, and Emrys watched Baalhanno. He marked the moment when the traitor's face suddenly fell with dread as he watched Dido among her people. Baalhanno was dead to Carthage, and he had suddenly realized his grave mistake in forcing this confrontation in favor of Iarbus.

Dido might leave Carthage, but Baalhanno would not remain the steward. In fact, Emrys thought vindictively, the man would likely be driven out of the city by an enraged mob. He found that he could not bring himself to care.

The traitor turned suddenly and met Emrys's accusing stare. It seemed to the Immortal that Baalhanno was pleading forgiveness. He would not find it in Emrys's eyes.

Emrys turned away and followed in the wake of his Queen.

--

The room was dark save for the quickly fading twilight that filtered through the high window. She stood in the center of the room, arms curled around herself. The light from his candle caught in her hair, making it glow the deep gold of the sand at sunset.

"Dido?"

Dido turned, and Emrys was almost surprised to find her cheeks dry. Any other woman would be reduced to tears, but then, Dido was not any other woman.

"What happened to Elishet?" she asked. Her voice sounded thin and hollow, and Emrys took three quick steps forward to engulf her in his arms. She shivered against him, clutching his robes as if her life depended on it. Still she shed no tears.

"Elishet was sacrificed tonight," he told her seriously, voice full of grief. "She willingly walked onto the altar and allowed a friend to draw the blade across her throat for the sake of her people. Dido, my Queen...tonight I lost my beloved sister."

"As did I," she whispered.

"I will follow you," he murmured into her hair. "Anywhere you lead, even unto the mouth of hell, I will follow."

"Thank you, Emrys, but I wouldn't ask that of you. Of anyone." She paused. "Well, maybe Baalhanno."

Emrys snorted involuntarily. How like his sister to find humor even in betrayal. She pulled out of his arms and they regarded each other in the candlelight.

"If I asked you to follow me forever, could you?" she asked suddenly.

Emrys smiled. So she knew. He had wondered. She had dropped little hints over the years, and now seemed like a good time to confess. After all, if he really did follow her, she would undoubtedly notice his lack of aging. Three years was not enough to really change a person – just look at the unchanged face before him! – but thirteen?

"Yes," he said. Then a truly ludicrous thought struck him, and he gave her a hesitant frown. "Could you lead me forever?"

She grinned. It was a wicked grin, at odds with the serene goddess he was currently envisioning her as. Suddenly the thought didn't seem quite so ludicrous after all, despite the impossibility of an Immortal that he couldn't sense.

"_Could_ you?" he pressed.

"I could."

"How?"

"It's a long story…"

"All of our stories are long. Start with your name."

"You start with yours," she said. Her eyes danced, and she led him by the hand to a little bench against the wall of the room. He wondered what the purpose of the room was, but decided it didn't matter enough to ask.

"My name really is Emrys. I have always been a priest, though not always of Melqart. I was murdered much in the fashion of Sychaeus about 3000 years ago," he said, mouth tightening at the memory. She nodded in understanding. "And you, little sister? Or is it big sister?"

"Big sister," she said definitively, and he raised his eyebrows. "Don't ask by how much. Suffice to say I'm older than anyone else you will ever meet."

"Are you older than Sumer?" he inquired cautiously.

"Yes. I was born in Africa. My tribe thought I was a spirit because of my pale coloring, and they cast me out when I was 15. My name is Eshe."

The lilt of her voice as she said the word fascinated him. He had never heard a word spoken with the lisp-click combination with which she said her name.

"Ashak," he tried fumblingly. She smiled and gently corrected him.

"Eshek," he tried again.

"_Esh e, _" she said slowly. "Eshe. Try it without the click."

"Esha," he repeated carefully. She shrugged.

"Close enough. Don't worry. I'm the only one in the world who knows you're pronouncing it wrong. That name, like my tribe and language, has long been forgotten in the sands of time."

"Why don't you buzz?" he asked. He didn't want her to dwell in loss and sorrow, so he attempted to steer the conversation away from the danger zone of loss.

"I'm not a part of the Game," she said.

Emrys stared. An Immortal who was not part of the Game? He had never heard of such a thing! "How is that possible, and how do I get out?"

"You can't," she said gently. "At least, not that I know of. Mine was a once-in-the-history-of-the-world sort of deal. It's complicated. Are you familiar with the rumors of demons?"

He nodded, and she began to spin a fascinating, horrifying tale. It took hours to tell, but neither was aware of the time passing. He had met a Slayer once, but to meet the _Mother_ of the Slayer line… And to think, he had been calling this amazing, ancient creature 'little sister' for the past three years! His entire perspective shifted.

--

Dido strolled through her white stone palace, fingers trailing over the smooth walls. It was small compared to what they had left behind in Tyre – barely the size of the average merchant's house – but it represented the long, careful work of a dedicated crew. It stood at the crown of the hill, surveying the city and the harbor. It was an easy landmark, and as the other houses had been built from the water up, there was still room for later expansion.

Not that she would be here to expand it.

She turned the corner and stepped out onto the terrace. She could imagine what this city would look like in ten years, fifty, a century… It would grow and spread and be prosperous. Perhaps it would be so prosperous that it would someday compete with Tyre itself. Her little white palace would become some king's huge palace. There would no doubt be a statue of her placed out by the harbor, and it would probably bare her little resemblance.

In two hundred years, they would have forgotten her name, and the statue would be regarded as a rendering of Ishtar or whichever goddess the people of the time wished to honor. She had no illusions of having a place in the long history of the world. After all, no one remembered the name of Qdair, and he had established a firm rule over the whole northern coast of Africa before he died at 19.

All she had done was found a small trading outpost.

She crossed the garden to the little temple she'd had erected beside a carefully nurtured olive tree. It wasn't a large temple, barely big enough for ten people to stand together, but it was beautiful in its simplicity and grace. She sank to her knees in the center of the floor, looking upwards through the space between pillars.

"Spirit, my old friend, now would be a great time for a chat."

"Will I enjoy the conversation?"

Dido turned, sliding into a cross-legged position as she did so. "Maybe," she said, leaning back on her hands and cocking her head to the side as she looked up at him. "Maybe not."

He looked just as he always looked – pale white skin and silver hair over a youthful face with twinkling blue eyes. If she didn't also look the same as always, she would probably be jealous.

"You don't look the same, Eshe – you get prettier every time we meet."

"Ha, ha. Flattery will not make the conversation go easier," she teased. It pleased her to hear her name roll of his tongue properly after listening to Emrys butcher it the night before. Not to blame Emrys's efforts, of course! That he tried was, in itself, quite pleasing. If only he didn't butcher it _so_ badly…

"Eshe," the Spirit said again. "Eshe, Eshe, Eshe!"

"Stop!" She was laughing now, and if she'd had anything to throw at him, she would have – not that it would make any difference to his incorporeal body. (She had tried many times. It never helped her mood when her efforts inevitably proved ineffectual.)

The Spirit looked inordinately pleased with himself for getting her to laugh, and he ventured over to sit cross legged in front of her. He smiled at her, and she relented enough to lean forward and kiss the vicinity of his cheek as a greeting.

"Thank you for coming, my friend."

"Anytime, my dear," he said, settling back. "So what's the what? Not that I don't enjoy being summoned just for a chat once in awhile – but you have your 'looming apocalypse' face on."

She smiled indulgently, enjoying the way his speech pattern changed the Phoenician language, twisting it into something unique and entirely his own. It was one of his idiosyncrasies, she'd found, one that never failed to cheer her up: the way he could take a perfectly normal language and turn it on its head to fit the flow of a second speech pattern and the word order of a third.

Of course, if it was anyone but a Higher Being who tried to speak that way, she had no doubt that communication would break down and language would be lost forever. Luckily he was a Power, for whom language was merely a formality.

"Dido is going to commit suicide this evening," she said suddenly, the smile falling off her face.

The Spirit's face stilled, and all traces of humor left it. "Why?"

"She's getting too old for her face not to change, for one thing."

He leveled a Look at her, and she grimaced. That wasn't really a reason, and she knew it. With the proper choice of attire, she could age herself to at least 25 before people would start asking questions – and then she could don the veils of the desert nomads and start a new fashion to carry her through the remainder of a woman's average lifespan.

"I'm being forced to marry."

"That's nothing new. You've had more forced marriages than I can remember – none of them required suicide as an escape route."

"No," she agreed, then fell silent. "You weren't really around while I was married to Achert," she said after a time. "I didn't call on you then, because I was happy, and time flew by quickly - but you were there when he died."

"You were devastated," he murmured, face compassionate.

"Yes. I didn't marry again for two centuries, because I couldn't bear to be with another man after I had loved Achert so deeply and for so long. It was the same with Sychaeus, though our parting came swifter and with less warning. Even the thought of being with another man churns my stomach right now. And now I _must_ marry Iarbus for the good of my people. I have become a _Queen_, old friend. In the truest sense. For their sakes, I cannot _not_ do this."

"So you will sacrifice yourself to the memory of your dead husband?"

"Yes," she said, relieved that he understood.

"Sychaeus wouldn't want that," he said. He reached out and grasped her hands in his, and she looked down in surprise as she felt flesh instead of the cool breath of spirit against her skin. It didn't last, though, and she had barely felt the hint of warmth before the sensation faded.

She looked up and met his intense blue eyes.

"_You_ don't want me to," she said with sudden insight. "Why not? You know quite well that it won't be permanent."

The Spirit was silent for a long moment, and she suddenly knew that it was because he hated to see her in pain. With this thought came a rush of accompanying emotions, foremost his desire for her to be happy.

It was her turn to smile at him with compassion, and she suddenly felt immensely better about the whole situation. His concern and his love put everything into perspective for her. Life would go on – and with Emrys's help, she would be able to pull the whole thing off with relative ease.

"Thank you," she said.

--


	5. Carthage: Sunset

**Disclaimer: **I'm just borrowing them for my own amusement. Highlander and Buffy belong to the respective owners.

**A/N: **I made up the ritual used in this chapter.

I'm looking for a consultant, if anyone has a bit of spare time. I need someone who is familiar with the Highlander universe and has a decent grasp on characters and timelines. Thanks.

**

* * *

**

**Carthage:_ Sunset_**

* * *

**Carthage, 811 BC**

Dido watched as Emrys lit the pyre. It was an impressive sight, dominating the paved courtyard on the shores of the harbor. Twice the size of a grown man, the cost of the exotic woods alone represented a sacrifice that would be sufficient to allay the spirit of even the most jealous husband. Dido knew Sychaeus was hardly jealous, even dead, but her goal was to make an exhibit of herself.

If her people were going to remember her, she wanted it to be for her virtue and strength and courage. She would leave Carthage with a legacy.

Emrys had already set aside a stash of their personal possessions, including what gold of hers remained separate from the city's coffers. Most of Sychaeus's gold would stay here and foster the growth of her young city. Once this affair was over, Emrys would take her body to a tomb and proceed to stand guard until she woke up, at which point they would leave together.

Dido was thinking about heading into the desert or into Egypt. Emrys had suggested Greece, but she had not yet made her decision. She was a creature of sun and sand, though she tolerated other climates well enough. Africa was her home. And yet, she had a feeling that she would allow herself to be convinced by her brother.

Dido turned her attention back to the now blazing sacrificial pyre. It was time to begin the ceremony. She stepped forward.

--

Emrys stepped back from the pyre as he watched the flames catch and spread. Outwardly, he knew, he was as serene and expressionless as he normally was during significant rituals. Inside, however, his gut was churning. This was a Bad Idea. All sorts of things could go wrong, and even if they didn't…

Burning to death took a long time to recover from, even for them.

Emrys did not like the idea of Dido going through all of this pain and suffering. Of course, he saw the future as clearly as she did.

If Dido married Iarbus, Carthage would either come under Mauritani control or it would die from the lack of strong leadership. Dido would be gone, Baalhanno would never be accepted, and Emrys himself intended to follow his queen.

If Dido refused to marry Iarbus, she would not only be undermining her own rule, she would be offering the king grave insult. If it came to war, Carthage had no hope. They were a city of adventurers and merchants. They were no Sparta.

And if Dido simply died quietly during the night, as Emrys had half-heartedly suggested, then the city would fall just as it would if she married Iarbus – although there would likely be suspicion and much civil unrest first, that could spell ruin for Carthage. Everyone would assume that one among them had killed their beloved queen. The city might tear itself apart without any help at all.

No, this was a good plan, or as good a plan as was possible in such a situation.

Already Dido was a legend within the Phoenician Empire: the Wandering Queen who followed the traditions and the proper way of things, who respected the gods and showed compassion and mercy to her followers. Her legend was furthered by her clever reasoning to gain the land for Carthage using the ox hide. Yesterday's court had only added to this growing legend: the Queen-Citizen, beautiful and sacrificial, ready to do anything for the sake of her people.

And tonight she would become legend in truth.

Emrys had no doubt that Dido's actions tonight would be long remembered. The beloved queen of Carthage: she would be remembered, and she would be the spirit of the city long after this death. In memory of her, the city would pull together. Leadership would be found. The Mauritani would lay no hand on the city. And Carthage would prosper.

But first Emrys had to watch his sister die in flames.

The pyre was ready. His mask of calm remained. He turned and joined the other priests as they all three began chanting the words. The solemn crowd stood still, watching the ritual in silence.

--

The ritual began with a slave, a man bought from a northern trader for just this purpose. Dido had selected him herself, for his similarity in looks to her despised brother. This ritual was to tell a story, her story. She would appeal to the gods for aid, and appeal to the spirit of Sychaeus to listen. If he accepted her sacrifice and the story of her journey to a second marriage, then it was believed that her union with Iarbus would be blessed.

As the priests behind her chanted a litany of the gods, Dido began to speak.

"My Lord Sychaeus," she said, voice clear above the roar of the fire. "My husband. This is my story. Hear me."

The slave was dragged forward and dropped on his knees before Dido. His eyes were glazed with the drugs he had been fed. He was half dead already, the poor man, and Dido felt a small surge of gratitude that she was not forced to listen to his pleas or his screams. She ran her fingers through his yellow hair.

"For your murder," she said calmly, "I cried."

Her fingers tightened in his hair and she forced his head back. The knife cut from ear to ear cleanly. She tossed the bleeding, jerking body onto the pyre. The crowd murmured.

A second man was brought forward. This man was a sailor by trade, caught preying on the young people of her city. He had been sentenced to death, and Dido felt no pity or remorse as he was forced to his knees beside her. This man had not been given the mercy of drugs. His eyes rolled about in fear, but his mouth had been bound shut to keep him from ruining the ceremony with distasteful screams. Her hand in his hair was not gentle.

"You came to me in a dream, My Lord Sychaeus. You told me where your gold was and set my course for safe harbor."

She drew the knife across his throat. His body joined the first on the pyre. The sickly sweet stench of burning flesh was rising from the pyre, and she breathed in deeply.

A third man was brought forward. He was dark skinned like the tribesmen of the area, though he came from far to the south and west. He had been given the option of drugs, but had refused, meeting his fate with bravery and honor. Dido did not force this man to kneel before her, but looked into his eyes with respect.

"You blessed us with friendship here," she said. She drew the knife across the throat of the brave man. "My husband, I thank you."

It was an ox that was led forward next, as a symbol of the founding of Carthage. Dido thought it more appropriate, though an animal sacrifice was generally considered a lesser offering. It was an ox hide, after all, that had caused this entire problem.

Two more men and one woman were brought forward as symbols of the three years that had passed since the founding of Carthage. And then it was the traitor's turn.

Baalhanno had been given no drugs. His wrists were bound tightly behind his back, but his mouth was free to wail and scream, and he took advantage of this. Pleading loudly, he tried to drown out the words that fell from the lips of a woman he had once followed. He struggled against her hand in his hair, sobbing in terror.

Dido leaned down to whisper in his ear, for his benefit alone. "I will join you in this death, Baalhanno." She drew the knife across his throat before he could so much as wonder at the meaning of her words.

And then it was time.

--

Emrys wondered if there was anyone out there who received these sacrifices. He had been a priest for so long… He remembered a time when he believed with all of his heart, but over the years his faith had flagged. That there was a power out there he could not help but believe, and yet… And yet he had watched gods shift and change. He had seen a single entity split and grow and become something else entirely. What was true? Who listened to his prayers? Who received this sacrifice?

Dido stood beside the fire, bare arms upraised. In one hand she still held the knife she had used to grant the others swift death. The other hand was open, upturned in supplication to the gods. Her face was tilted up, and he could see that her eyes her closed and a little smile played over her lips. The purple of her silks hid the blood he knew must soak the front of her dress. Her headdress glowed in the orange light of the fire. Over her shoulder, the sunset flared red and gold in the sky.

Emrys sighed.

Dido stepped forward, arms still raised, eyes still closed.

"My Lord Sychaeus," she cried. "I love you. I am faithful to you. Always."

And she leapt into the heart of the fire.


	6. Interlude: Family History

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Buffy or Highlander.

* * *

**Interlude: _Family History_**

* * *

**New York, 1971**  
--

"Hey sweetie, what're you working on?" asked Betsy as she entered the kitchen. Her daughter looked up from the pile of homework and books spread out on the table.

"History project," said Joy. "I don't suppose you could help? I'm dying here!"

"You're not dying," Betsy scoffed as she searched their cupboard for the powdered lemonade. "Ah ha!" she cried as she found it. She immediately busied herself filling two glasses. "And anyway," she added as she stirred in the cold water, "you didn't seem to appreciate my attempt to help you with your Julius Caesar report."

"Yeah, but that was 'cause your version isn't the way it is in the history books," Joy shrugged, accepting her lemonade with a quick thanks. Her mother boosted herself up to sit on the high counter.

"History books. Ugh," said Betsy. "When I was your age-"

"-history hadn't been invented," Joy recited dutifully. The blondes exchanged fond smiles. "But really, Mom," continued Joy, "you may have met Julius Caesar, but you can't possibly have met _everyone_ who's dead and famous."

"You'd be surprised," Betsy smirked. Her daughter rolled her eyes.

"Alexander the Great," Joy said, tone daring her mother to prove knowledge of that august personage.

"Your half-brother," said Betsy smugly. Joy's jaw dropped.

"No way!" she cried. "No freaking way!"

"Yes freaking way," Betsy parroted calmly, kicking her heels idly as she watched her daughter gape. "You're a lot alike," she added after a moment of contemplation. "You were both precocious children, endlessly stubborn, with a great love for horses."

"Except I'm probably not going to conquer the known world," Joy pouted.

Joy had always known that her mother had had other children over the ages, but being told that _Alexander the Great_ was your _big brother_ was somewhat discombobulating. And it certainly put a new spin on competing with your siblings, thought Joy. How on earth could a modern American girl hope to compare with _Alexander the Great_?

"Maybe not with an army, that's slightly out of vogue, but I have no doubt that you'll accomplish great things, just like all your brothers and sisters," Betsy soothed.

Joy looked skeptical, and still a bit overwhelmed, so Betsy gave her an encouraging smile.

"For the record, you've already surpassed your siblings in terms of turning my hair gray."

Joy snorted. "_Mom_…" Joy knew very well that her mother hadn't gained a gray hair since, well, never. Betsy giggled.

The two were silent for a minute. Betsy sipped her lemonade and gave Joy time to assimilate the knowledge she had just gained. Suddenly the girl frowned and pulled her history book closer. She flipped back two pages and started reading a passage under a poorly rendered bronze statue that was apparently supposed to be of her mother.

"Mom..." she trailed off.

"Yes dear?" Betsy continued to kick her heels.

"If Alexander was _your_ son, that means you were Olympias, right?"

"Yes, I suppose it does," said Betsy as she frowned in thought. It was much easier for her to recall her children than it was to recall what her own name had been at any given time.

Joy turned to stare at her mother, an odd expression passing over her face.

"What?" asked Betsy, resisting the urge to check if she had spinach in her teeth. After all, they hadn't been eating spinach.

"Geez, mom! You were such a _bitch_!"

It was Betsy's turn to let her jaw drop. "Excuse me?" she said, caught between confusion and disapproval for her daughter's vulgarity.

"Really, Mom - conspiring to kill your husband, having an oedipal relationship with your son..."

"What?!" Betsy was off the counter and gripping the text book before Joy had a chance to blink. She grimaced as she read the historian's version of that lifetime. "What a load of tripe," she complained. "Is this the education I'm paying thousands of dollars for? Because if it is, then I ought to just home school you."

It was an old complaint, and Joy didn't take it seriously. She waited for her mother to elaborate on the 'tripe.'

"Ok, so maybe I was in the middle of a really lousy century, but I really wasn't _that_ bad. And Philip was a pig," she sneered. "And so maybe I conspired against him just a little teeny bit-"

"You _did_ have him assassinated!" said Joy. Betsy shrugged, but didn't deny it.

"But I _never_ had an unnatural relationship with any of my children. Well, unless you count occasionally masquerading as _their_ children, but that's a different sort of unnatural altogether. Oedipal relationship, my ass. Alexander was gay!"

Joy choked at her mother's matter-of-fact exclamation. "Really?" she asked. "The history books hint, but..."

"He was quite gay. But then, at that time it was acceptable for men to keep company with one another, provided they also did their duty by a woman. Alexander did his duty and then found pleasure with men."

"Oh," said Joy, and frowned. "It's funny," she said finally. "We think of ourselves as so progressive today, so accepting, and yet we commit hate crimes against people who are different."

"If by funny, you mean sad," her mother agreed. "But I'm glad you're open minded."

Joy shrugged. "I can't help it. My peers used to tease me about how involved we've been in the civil rights movement, but I'm your daughter before I'm their friend."

"And I'm proud of you for that, Rejoice."

They were both silent for a moment as they considered the state of the world and the attitudes held by the populace. Joy broke the mood.

"Socrates," said Joy suddenly.

"Did I know him?" Betsy asked, adroitly following her daughter's train of thought.

Joy nodded.

"He was an excellent philosopher. I spoke with him extensively on the subject of love. I think we were mutually impressed."

"Not my brother?" Joy sounded slightly disappointed.

"Sorry, kid. No relationship whatsoever."

"Plato? Aristotle?" she tried.

"Never met Plato," replied Betsy. "But I heard about him, and read his work. Don't trust a word of what he says that Socrates said, by the way. And I hired Aristotle to tutor Alexander, remember?"

"Oh yeah," said Joy, chewing on her pencil. "Hannibal! Did you ever meet Hannibal of Carthage?"

"Sort of."

"Sort of?" Joy encouraged.

"He worshipped me."

"Come again?" said Joy, taken aback. "Mom, if that's a euphemism for sex..."

"No!" laughed Betsy. "No, I was a Carthaginian deity, and Hannibal sacrificed to me before going on that mad elephants-over-the-alps expedition. I was in the area, so I dropped by and gave my blessing in person."

Joy was staring at her mother again. "Wait a minute. Mom, you were a _goddess_?" Why hadn't she known this? You would think it would come up in conversation at some point.

"I was worshipped as one," Betsy corrected, draining the last of her lemonade and walking over to the sink to rinse out the glass. "They deified me after my 'death.' Dido-Tanit and all that."

Joy shook her head slowly. "Why are we only just having this conversation?" she asked. "It's not like I didn't know you're old like dirt..."

Betsy shrugged. "This is the first time you've asked."

"Silly me," said Joy, rolling her eyes. But she was asking now, so she might as well make the most of the opportunity. "How about Nero?"

"No, I was in Britain at the time."

"Constantine?"

"Never met him," Betsy shook her head.

Joy was looking ridiculously proud to have thought of two historical figures that her mother wasn't connected to. "What about Charlemagne," she challenged, hoping for a third 'win.'

"We had a thing when he was young," Betsy smirked. "I liked tall men."

"Mom!" groaned Joy.

"You asked," said Betsy with a shrug.

"Okay, Mom, what about Anne Bonny?" asked Joy, certain that she had regained the upper hand with her abrupt shift of geography.

"I was Mary Reade."

Joy gaped again. "You were a _pirate_?"

Betsy shrugged. "Sure. I've never been particularly moral, and piracy sounded fun at the time. Remember that this was during the time when it really sucked to be a woman. Not that it didn't usually..."

"But a pirate?" Joy protested weakly. Betsy just grinned, and Joy shook her head in exasperation. "Alright, Mom. What about Shakespeare?"

"I was in Queen Elizabeth's court at the time. I saw a few of his plays and spoke to the man, but didn't know him well."

"Was it really Shakespeare?" Joy asked eagerly.

"What do you mean?" asked Betsy, frowning slightly in confusion.

"Well, there's an academic debate over whether Shakespeare from Stratford-Upon-Avon actually wrote the plays, or whether he was just a front man."

"I mourn the passage of academia into the realms of tabloid. Joy, that man vomited poetry. Shakespeare was Shakespeare."

Joy looked smug. "That's what I argued in my last paper - not the vomiting poetry part, the Stratford part."

"Who else can you think of?" Betsy challenged. "This game is fun."

"Jason," Joy fell back on the Greek classics, her current area of study. Betsy quirked an eyebrow, and Joy quickly elaborated, "Of Argonaut fame."

Betsy grinned. "Ah, now _that_ is a story for another day," she said.

"Mooom," Joy's face contorted at the thought of a good story being withheld.

"I'll tell you some time when you don't have homework," Betsy said. "It's a rather long story."

"Give me a hint?" Joy pleaded.

Betsy appeared to consider it. "If you can stump me with the next historical figure, I'll give you a hint."

Joy sent her mother a half-hearted glare, but immediately turned to rack her mind for someone that her mother couldn't possibly know.

"I'll make it even more fair," Betsy said suddenly. "I'll give you three tries."

"Achilles," said Joy.

"Your brother," said Betsy.

Joy groaned. "Alexander _and_ Achilles? Mom, am I related to _all_ the Greek heroes?"

"Hardly," snorted Betsy. "I didn't have _that_ many kids."

"Columbus," said Joy.

"I heard his petition to the Spanish monarchs, dressed as a man, and joined his first expedition."

Joy gaped again. "You sailed with Columbus?" she repeated weakly.

"He was a bit of a bastard," said Betsy with a shrug. "Not so nice to the Natives. I stayed with them for awhile."

Joy was silent, face creasing in thought. She had one last chance to foil her mother and learn her relationship to Jason and the Argonauts. The whole challenge was ridiculous, Joy thought, because the sheer improbability of her mother knowing _every_ famous person was beyond absurd. And yet, somehow, she kept naming the ones that Betsy had met. A gleam came into her eyes.

"Jesus Christ," she said firmly. "Tell me that you knew Jesus Christ of Nazareth, and I won't even complain about not hearing the Argonaut story."

"Really?" asked Betsy.

Joy nodded again, looking self-satisfied.

"Jesus was a very sweet little boy who rarely cried and loved to be held."

Joy's jaw dropped. "...you were _not_ Mary," she accused. "There is no way you were Mary."

"Of course not," Betsy waved her hand dismissively. "I'm an Immortal who houses an essentially demonic force within me - of course I wasn't the mother of God!"

"So he really was the son of God?" Joy pressed, curious despite her sense of defeat.

"Does it matter?" asked Betsy. "He was, at the very least, a powerful prophet. It's not my place to say whether he was the son of the One True God of Judeo-Christian tradition. I'm pagan, dear. I will say that Mary and Joseph were visited by spirits and that Mary believed she was pregnant by her God--and I was also visited by a spirit who told me to take the family in and protect them when they fled into Egypt."

"Were you at the crucifixion?" Joy whispered, staring at her mother.

"I was," Betsy murmured. "The spirit sent me a message and I went. I was there. It was terrible, like loosing any of my own children." Betsy walked over and pressed a kiss to her daughter's forehead, then silently exited the kitchen, lost in thought.

It was a good fifteen minutes before Joy could focus on her homework after that.

--

**A/N:** Kudos if you can name Buffy during the time Socrates was alive. And yes, this was a conversation between Buffy and Joyce before the monks' spell. Mr. Buffy named their daughter Rejoice. Buffy called her Joy, and after the spell she became known as Joyce. Where is Mr. Buffy? Well, you'll find out eventually.


End file.
